


Mattie Coyle’s Back in Town

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coyle did promise he'd be back in a few years when they were older and more weary...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mattie Coyle’s Back in Town

Written: 2002

First published in "Of Dreams & Schemes 18" (2003)

     “…So there’s an APB out on Rodriguez. Good work on building the case, you two.” 

Captain Dobey rarely smiled when he praised, as if he didn’t want to spoil his men. Still, the two of them had worked hard on the Rodriguez double-murder, and Hutch let himself bask a moment in the acknowledgement of a job well done. Even if Rodriguez wasn’t actually in custody yet, he and Starsky had done their part in putting the bad guy away and that always felt good. A glance at his partner saw that Starsky was giving him a slight smile in return. Yeah, it was rather nice letting the younger generation in blue do the running around now.

     Dobey set the file aside and picked up the last one in the stack they’d started the briefing with. Now that they were on the streets less, and most of the senior detectives in Special Units had either retired or moved on to less-stressful assignments, _they_ were the lead detectives in the unit, and the two of them spent more time in their boss’s office, going over casework and discussing leads. Hutch had thought more than once that Dobey was grooming one of them to eventually replace him as captain when he retired, but he didn’t dwell on it. Starsky had recently renewed his interest in going back to school, but until he got his degree, he wasn’t eligible for the lieutenant’s exam, and Hutch had no intention of moving up without his partner. Not that Starsky was holding him back—they were a team, and Hutch was happy where he was. Starsky was, too, Hutch knew from their long discussions on the subject. Life was good and he had no intention of messing with what worked. 

     The captain cleared his throat, and Hutch turned back to him with curiosity. A reluctant Dobey usually meant something was up. 

     “There’s one more matter we need to discuss. I just received the most recent prison release and parole board review list. Guess who’s out?”

     He didn’t look so much worried as chagrined, and Hutch’s interest was piqued. He cast another glance at Starsky, but his partner was none-the-wiser, either. The list was an inevitable part of their job and usually didn’t mean all that much; most of the felons they’d put away came out with the intention of disappearing, cleaning up their act, or going back to their old way of life. Few bothered with revenge, despite what was showed on TV. 

     “So you gonna keep us in suspense, Cap’n?” That was Starsky, his words an easy drawl. One benefit of having gone through all they had, of having looked death square in the eye so many times, was that very little intimidated them anymore. They knew what their limits were now, but they also knew how strong they were together. 

     Captain Dobey finally spoke. “Matt Coyle was released on Monday after passing his parole board review.” 

     Starsky straightened in the chair next to him even as Hutch leaned forward. Of all the names he might have expected, Coyle’s still surprised him. But then, the man had made a career of that. “Coyle? How can he be up for parole review already?” 

     “All he went in for was possession with intent to traffic. We both know what he is, but with no record, no other evidence against him, Coyle didn’t even get the maximum. And as for the parole hearing—you know better than I do how persuasive Matt Coyle can be.” Dobey’s eyebrow was raised with emphasis of all he wasn’t saying.

     Starsky was looking at Hutch, long and intently, as Hutch sank back in his seat and met his partner’s eyes. Yeah, they knew how persuasive Coyle could be. This was the same man who’d had an “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine” deal with Iron Mike Ferguson, one of the most straight-arrow cops on the street, and who’d offered the two of them a similar deal after Ferguson’s death. They’d put him in jail, instead, catching him in the middle of a drug deal, but his last words to them played in Hutch’s mind: _I’ll do my time, but it won’t be much. And then when I get out, you’ll be older, and more weary, like Iron Mike was. And then, well, then, me buckos, then you’ll be calling me._ It had struck a nerve in them both, enough that they’d never talked about it after that day. Oh, yeah, Matt Coyle had a way of getting to you. 

     Starsky was addressing Dobey, sounding less self-assured than he usually did. “Yeah, well, so what? It’s not like Coyle ever threatened us, right? He’s probably gonna go back to his food-packing and drug businesses and we’re just gonna have to put him away again. We deal with turkeys like him all the time. Right?”

    The question was really for him, a silent bid for a little reassurance, and Hutch managed to stretch his face into a weak smile. “Sure. All in a day’s work.” 

     “Yeah.” 

     They weren’t fooling Dobey for a second. The captain eyed them both hard before slapping the file shut and dropping it onto the finished pile. “Listen, you two—I want you to stay away from Matt Coyle. The man has a special interest in you, and that only means trouble. If he goes back to his former business, let Vice handle him. You got that?”

     “Yes, sir.” Starsky’s voice was in chorus with his. It was an agreement Hutch could make easily. He had no interest whatsoever in tangling with the smooth drug dealer again. 

    “That’s all then—get back to work.” That was a typical Dobey dismissal, gruff and blunt. Age hadn’t sweetened their captain any. The corner of Hutch’s mouth turned up, and he rose in one motion for the door, getting there in time to hold it for Starsky and follow his partner out into the squadroom.

     “So what do you think?” Starsky half-turned to him as they headed toward the squadroom door. No discussion was needed about the fact they were both hungry and lunchtime was next on the agenda. Cafeteria food was the one regular danger they faced now in their daily work. 

     Hutch fell in beside him as they strode down the corridor. He didn’t need to ask what Starsky was talking about, either. “I think…Matt Coyle’s just one of a thousand guys we’ve put away, ninety-nine percent of whom will never be trouble again.”

     “That still leaves one percent,” Starsky pointed out as he jabbed the button for the elevator. 

     “You think Coyle’s going to give us trouble?”

     Starsky was frowning, the thought clearly bothering him. “I think we’re at least gonna hear from him. He didn’t exactly strike me as the kinda guy who would forget and move on.” 

     Hutch couldn’t argue that. “So what do we do?”

     “Same as always.” The elevator _ding_ ed open, and Starsky stepped in, giving Hutch a half-smug, half-warm look. “I watch your back and you watch mine.” 

     Hutch snorted as he stepped in to join his partner. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” 

     The folded note was on Starsky’s desk as they returned to the squadroom after lunch. Hutch didn’t even give the piece of paper a second glance, intent on his lecture on the lack of nutritional value of Twinkies. He barely noticed Starsky picking up the note to read it, but his lecture died in mid-sentence as he glanced at the brunet’s face. His partner stood in front of the desk, the opened square of paper in his hand as he stared first at it, then at Hutch, with a stony jaw and uneasy eyes. 

    “What’s wrong?” Hutch asked immediately, already reaching for the note. He had to tug it out of Starsky’s grasp, casting one last searching look at his partner before reading the single line on the white paper.

_Care to reconsider the offer, gentlemen?_

 It was handwritten, the question mark drawn with a flourish, but unsigned. The writer had known as well as the two detectives that a signature was unnecessary. Hutch looked up at Starsky again, who was already glancing around the room. Only a few plainclothes officers were there, working at their desks, but he addressed them en masse.

“Anybody see who delivered this?” He grabbed the note from Hutch’s hand, holding it aloft. 

Several puzzled shakes of the head. 

“Anybody you don’t know in here while we were gone? Near my desk?” 

More blank stares and one young detective ventured, “I just got here.”

Starsky sighed, hard. “Terrific,” he muttered, turning back to Hutch, the note dropping to his desk. “Building full o’ cops, and Coyle just waltzes in.” 

“I doubt he came himself,” Hutch said with a sardonic smile.

“Doesn’t matter—if he can get in here—”

“—no place is safe, I know,” Hutch finished. He thought for a minute, the cop in him already figuring they would need to send the note down for prints, to check the visitors logs and cameras and talk to the officer at the front desk, to tell Dobey of the new wrinkle, and to pay Matt Coyle a visit, not necessarily in that order. But Starsky was rattled, spine stiff and eyes fixed on that damnable note. Hutch skirted their two desks to stand just inches from his partner, an invasion of personal space he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing with most people but that seemed so natural for them, and dropped a hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “I watch your back and you watch mine, remember?” he said quietly. 

A start, then Starsky gave him an almost sheepish smile. “Yeah. It’s just a note, right?”

“Right.” 

Except it wasn’t, and they both knew it. It was a challenge.

Five minutes later, the note was on its way to the lab, two detectives had been sent to try to figure out who’d delivered it, and Starsky and Hutch were on their way to pay a visit. 

The company was still where they remembered it; Coyle Provision Company had stayed in business even with its boss temporarily behind bars. Too temporarily, Hutch thought darkly.

Inside, they were directed to the same posh office Hutch remembered vividly, a faceless young girl playing secretary outside its doors. Hutch didn’t even bother with her, he and Starsky storming right past despite her mild protests.

Coyle hadn’t aged a day. He still had that startling white hair and piercing brown eyes, and the repulsively fake smile that spread across the tanned face at the sight of them. It looked as if Coyle had been at a spa instead of in prison, and Hutch had to wonder again what it was about the man that somehow set him apart from the common criminal. It was an observation he knew Coyle would have approved of. 

The man rose from behind his desk, buttoning his suit coat with one hand, even as he raised the other in greeting. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, Hutch thought sourly, and saw that Starsky wasn’t liking this at all, either. Then again, they weren’t exactly there for a social call.

“Gentlemen! How good to see you again! I’m honored you decided to pay me a visit.” 

At least the fake Irish accent was gone. It told Hutch at least some of the pretenses were dropped. “Coyle. We’re honored you invited us.” 

The man ignored the heavy sarcasm, feigning a pleasant, puzzled smile instead. “I’m not certain what you’re referring to, Detective, but any reason that brings you here is one I’m grateful for. Would you care to have a seat?” He had reached Starsky and made a motion to put an inviting hand on his shoulder, but Starsky shrugged clear.

“We won’t be staying that long,” Starsky said coldly.

“Indeed? What a shame. Then what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“How about leaving us alone, for starters.” Hutch matched the man’s phony smile. “I think we’ve made it pretty clear we’re not interested in any offers you make.” 

Something darkened in Coyle’s eyes. “Well, if I knew what you gentlemen were talking about, I’d say that’s a pity. Offers are usually made out of mutual benefit.” 

“We’re doin’ just fine without your kind of help,” Starsky shot back. “I’d suggest you worry about your own business, Coyle. If it’s the same as before, you’re not gonna be in it long.” 

The friendly hand had dropped, deep in Coyle’s pocket now, the smile also gone. The sharp chestnut eyes studied them both. “I made a mistake before and I’ve paid for it. It’s time for me to get back to work, and I suggest you two do the same. I had merely thought that perhaps we could make it easier for each other to do so.”

“You thought wrong,” Hutch said flatly.

“I see. You realize that turning down such an offer could have serious…disadvantages?”

Hutch didn’t miss a beat. “Are you threatening a police officer, Mr. Coyle?”

The false smile returned, a dark and dangerous glitter behind it. “Not at all, gentlemen, not at all. Whatever gave you that idea? But I can see we’re just wasting each other’s time, and I’ve been away from my work far too long as it is.” 

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. The promise of unfinished business hung heavy in the air, even though Coyle’s face was still placid, his eyes unreadable. While he’d been intent on coaxing them onto his payroll, he’d been fatuous, generous, and hands-off. Now, it seemed he’d finally gotten the message they weren’t buying, now or ever, and something had changed. Hutch couldn’t help but wonder if they’d just forfeited a kind of immunity and started something bigger than they’d realized. 

He headed for the door, one hand tangled in a seething Starsky’s jacket. Coyle’s audacity always got his partner worked up, and now was not the time for a confrontation. Hutch was worried, and the two of them had some regrouping to do. A brief nod of just-civil good-bye and they were out the door, which he shut firmly behind him. 

Starsky followed him out into the hall, maintaining the appearance of solidarity until they were out of even the secretary’s sight, then rounded on him. “What do you think you’re doin’?” he demanded. “Since when do you decide when we’re done with an interview?”

It was a stupid question; even Starsky would see that once he calmed down. They often called the shots for each other, especially when one of them was on the verge of losing it. “Since you looked ready to bash in our interviewee’s face,” Hutch said rationally. 

“He was threatenin’ us, Hutch.” Starsky had a hot temper, but he was also a good cop who could turn it off when he needed to. Now he was dead sober. “Right to our face, he was tellin’ us all bets were off.” 

“I know,” Hutch quietly agreed. Starsky often confirmed his own suspicions and thoughts. It was one of the many benefits of working with someone so long. “It’d just give him the upper hand if we let him know he got to us.” He started back toward the front entrance, walking slowly and thoughtfully. 

Starsky was by his side a moment later. “He didn’t get t’me,” he said, suddenly subdued. “It was you he was lookin’ at.” 

Hutch stopped, giving him a startled glance. What? He’d been worried about Starsky’s emotions too near the surface while _he’d_ been the one giving Coyle what he wanted?

Starsky offered him an apologetic, bolstering smile. “Hey, nobody but me can tell what you’re thinkin’, blondie—don’t worry about it. It just made me mad he was gettin’ to you.” 

Every time he thought he’d figured out that idiot beside him… Hutch breathed out, shoulders unexpectedly losing their tightness, and offered a half-smile of his own. No more thanks was needed. And then he switched gears back to the problem at hand. “We’ve never gone up against Matt Coyle before, Starsk. We brought him down the last time because we played him as being on the same side. He won’t fall for that again—this time I have a feeling it’s war.” 

Starsky’s smile was gone and he just nodded once as they left the building. “Maybe.” He put his sunglasses on as they walked back to the waiting Torino, so Hutch couldn’t see his eyes as his partner turned back to him, giving him a long look over the hood of his car. “But it’s still two against one.” 

And however many of Coyle’s loyal henchmen. Sometimes he wished he had his partner’s optimism, Hutch thought as he got into the car and they headed back to the station. 

The worry had lingered in the back of their minds throughout the rest of the day and the one after that. It was the same sort of unshakable sense of waiting as when a storm is on the way, heavy and electric in the air. Hutch knew it weighed on his thoughts like an oppressive warning, and Starsky wore a speculative look that said he was thinking much the same thing. Dobey had chewed them out for not telling him immediately about the note or about going to see Coyle, following it up by asking them if they needed protection assigned to them. They’d declined and gone back to work on the pile of cases currently assigned to them, but Coyle was never quite forgotten.

On the other hand, letting one man’s vague threats get to them was giving him too much power. After a second restless night, Hutch finally refused to dwell on the matter. Fresh out of prison, Coyle surely had more important things to worry about than the two of them, and God knew they had more important things to worry about than Coyle. Hutch dived into their current investigations with a new resolve that he knew helped his partner put aside his own worries. 

Still, there was no point in being careless, and after Starsky dropped him off at his apartment the following afternoon, Hutch found himself wary. He climbed the last few steps to his floor silently, examined the door for any sign of forced entry, then pressed his ear to the wood. Silence, just like the day before. Still, he turned his key gently and eased the door open, checking for any sort of booby trap. Nothing. Relieved, he swung it open and went inside.

The man had been waiting for him behind the door.

The movement caught his eye, but Hutch had no time to do more than try to defend himself. He knew it was too late even as the blow landed expertly on the back of his neck. An explosion in his skull, agony rocketing around inside his head like an out of control ricochet, and he dropped bonelessly to the ground.

But not into black unconsciousness.

The pain left him breathless and paralyzed, too shocked to even moan, and teetering on the edge of darkness but not falling in. That would have been a blessing. As it was, Hutch could feel the rough hands that lifted him up and dragged him farther into his apartment, dropping him back onto the living room rug and rocking his already shattered head. The internal groan became a gasp, but all silent, his body seeming to ignore him except for the awful pain in his head. And then even that became secondary when his sleeve was carefully unbuttoned and dragged up his arm, and a needle pricked the inside of his elbow. 

Oh, dear God, not again.

He would have screamed then if he could, in fury and violation, but most of all in terror of reliving a hell he’d finally put behind him. This couldn’t be happening, not again. He wouldn’t let it, but all his desperate attempts to fight the invasion of his home and body resulted only in the slight, sluggish movement of one arm. 

“Guess I didn’t hit him hard enough.” 

The words were so clear, even though his head felt too full of thudding pain to take anything in. The pounding would break through his skull any minute. 

“It won’t matter when the shot takes effect.” 

He knew that voice, but didn’t have enough clarity of mind to place it. All he could register was his sleeve carefully being rolled back down and his arm laid by his side. The arm they’d just pumped full of something.

Except it wasn’t the familiar awful sweetness of a heroin rush he felt. This was more like a lethargy creeping through him, as if one by one the lights were being shut off in his body, the feeling in his limbs gone, then his torso. Only his head still hurt with vicious agony, enough to make him want to throw up. If only he still had a stomach or could move his mouth. Everything was so distant, so unreal. Poison? Was this death?

It was terror that choked him now.

And still the voices above, around him. “How long do you think?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here.”

He who? It was hard to think. Panic swept coherence from his thoughts, but didn’t spread past his neck, leaving his body dead and untouched. There didn’t seem to be air to breathe, his lungs not expanding on command, and his heart was racing faster than his thoughts. It was unbearable; he’d have a heart attack, if he didn’t go mad first. Starsky, he needed Starsky because there was danger after all and they’d been stupid not to expect it and even if it was too late, he didn’t want to die alone.

Another noise, jarring and insistent. Phone, it was the phone, but he had no more hope of getting to it than he had of flying. The voices consulted again and then fell silent, and finally the phone did, too, only to start again a minute later. 

Claustrophobia pummeled him, the feeling of being trapped inside his unresponsive body. He couldn’t even open his eyes. Hutch’s mind clawed at the prison, but there was no getting out. He couldn’t even scream.

This was a new hell all its own. He lost track of time, of himself, trapped in the madness. 

And then a new banging sound intruded, jerking him back to the here-and-now ~~that~~ he was only barely in.

“Hutch!”

Starsky. He would have cried if he could, and not even been ashamed at the flooding relief. 

A door swung open and then a closer, more alarmed, “ _Hutch!_ ”

He had rarely wanted anything more than he wanted at that moment to move, to respond in some way and ease both their fears, but he couldn’t, could only lie there and listen. 

“I suggest you stay right where you are, Detective Starsky.”

“What’d you do to him?” Hutch barely recognized the cold voice with a tremor in it.

“I believe my offer was more than fair. Would it have been so difficult to accept?”

“Is he dead?” Starsky sounded terrified. Hutch momentarily forgot his fear, clinging to and caught up in that hollow voice. 

“I believe I asked you a question.”

“If he’s dead, you just signed your own death certificate, Coyle.” Coyle, he knew that… Why was Starsky so scared?

“Perhaps we won’t underestimate each other again. You still have the opportunity to reconsider my offer, Detective. I suggest you do so wisely.” 

“I’m goin’ over there to see him—you try to stop me and it’ll be the last thing you do.” 

“You seem to forget who’s holding the gun, Starsky. And Hutchinson will be fine—even now he can hear what we’re saying; he’s merely been rendered unable to move. I appreciate a captive audience. But I believe our business here is concluded. I trust we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” 

“Bet on it.” Starsky was getting closer, and Hutch desperately wished his partner would help.

As if there had ever been any question. 

He could barely hear the bang of a distant door shutting over the voice right next to him. “Hutch? Come on, buddy, tell me you’re okay.”

But he wasn’t. He didn’t know if he was on the verge of laughing or crying, all of it buried inside him where no one, not even Starsky, could hear. Either would have bordered on hysteria. 

“Listen, then, if you can hear me, everything’s gonna be fine. Coyle’s gone now, I’m here. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

He did, and despite the obvious bravado of the words, Hutch believed them, and the madness began to retreat. He realized abruptly he could feel dim movement, being turned and then raised. His aching head was jostled and he groaned, a sound he could hear. The relief of that eclipsed even the new pain. 

“See,” Starsky whispered confidentially, relief clear in his voice, too. “Already comin’ out of it. Just take it easy and everything’ll be terrific.”

He was choking on the release from the terror and the sudden love for this person who could make everything better just by being there. Hutch’s neck was gently straightened, his heavy, injured head propped up against something solid and safe. Déjà vu of Starsky finding him as he was going through the abyss of heroin withdrawal, as he lay trapped under his car in Topanga Canyon, as he slowly succumbed to the effects of botulism filled him. So many horrors and so much caring concern. Emotions wrenched out of control from the sudden ups and downs swamped Hutch, and he struggled to keep breathing. 

“Hey, take it easy, it’s okay now, an’ help’s on the way.” Starsky still sounded so shaky, even while trying to be reassuring. He wrapped Hutch in a loose hug, his arms the only warmth Hutch could feel, and rocked gently enough not to jar his head, as if comforting a child. “I’m not goin’ nowhere, and I’m not lettin’ you go or anyone else get to you, you got that? Can’t get rid of me that easy after all these years.” 

The sense of recovered security couldn’t be denied. The flood receded, leaving peace in its wake as Hutch stopped fighting, just lay there and let himself be babied. Starsky would never tell—they’d kept a lot of each other’s secrets over the years. It wasn’t the way Hutch would have chosen, but sometimes the crises reminded them both of how much the other meant, and how good it felt sometimes to give the fight over to someone that worthy of trust. It had taken a lot of years of Starsky’s friendship for Hutch to be able to admit that, but now it seemed such a given. 

He felt himself grow sleepy, lulled by Starsky’s voice and the gentle swaying. There was only the pain now to contend with, the terror almost completely gone, even though he was as helpless as before. But he wasn’t alone anymore.

When he finally faded out on the bumpy ride in the ambulance, Starsky was still by his side, a hand rubbing the side of his neck to remind him of that. 

Being conscious wasn’t worth the pain, his head threatening to come off at the slightest movement, and that idea sounding so enticing. 

There was a rustle of pages near him, and Hutch remembered then why it _was_ worth being awake.

“Starsk?” he whispered, not even wanting to move his mouth too much. His head was attached far too precariously. 

Sounds of movement, and Starsky’s smiling face appeared right above him, in his field of vision without his needing to turn his head. Clearly his partner recalled what a head injury felt like, and the small act of kindness unexpectedly tweaked Hutch’s mouth. 

“Can I…get some water?” 

“Sure.” Starsky disappeared, then reappeared with a glass and straw. At least he could drink without too much pain, and the liquid felt good on his dry throat.

“What’s the verdict?” Hutch asked when he’d had enough. He had a vague memory of Starsky telling him about blood tests and exams, and of being at his side when he’d woken earlier—once, or twice before?—but that was all he could remember. 

“There’s a knot on the back of your head and some drug that’s almost out of your blood now. You’re gonna be fine as soon as the room stops spinnin’.”

Now that Starsky mentioned it…but the thought of the drug, of the needle sliding into his vein, still had power over him, and Hutch squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. 

He could hear the heart monitor speed up, but Starsky was already leaning close, one of Hutch’s hands firmly in his own. Not holding hands so much as the kind of grip you had on someone you were keeping from falling. 

“Hey, hey, don’t think about that. It’s over now. Hutch? C’mon, open your eyes an’ look at me.” 

It was an effort, prying them apart, but he did. The vivid memory faded at the sight of the hospital room and his worried partner. “I could feel it,” Hutch said hoarsely. 

“I know. And they had no right to do that to you. But not every needle’s got poison in it, buddy. I know what it reminds you of, but Coyle’s not Forest.” 

No, even Coyle didn’t quite have the twisted mind of Ben Forest, who thought nothing of using repeated doses of heroin and withdrawal to find out what he wanted. And even if, God forbid, it had been Forest all over again, Hutch had the cure sitting right next to him, right? He finally managed a shaky smile.

“That’s it,” Starsky said approvingly. “You’re just a little confused still—gettin’ your head knocked in does that to ya. It’ll get better soon.” 

It always did, but that wasn’t the point. What was, was that Starsky would hang around until it did. Like an external control when he lost it internally. But, Hutch frowned, Coyle was still out there, wasn’t he? “What’re you doin’ here?” he asked. 

There was faint humor in Starsky’s face. “All those times we got away with the ‘guard duty’ excuse for stayin’ with each other, this time it was Dobey who ordered me to stay here. You’re a sittin’ duck here by yourself.” 

“Thanks,” Hutch breathed, trying to sound wry but just coming across as tired. 

“Just watching your back,” came the gentle reminder. 

He couldn’t argue with that and they both knew it. Hutch blew out a frustrated breath, wincing when it was more movement than his head was happy with. 

“Doc said it wasn’t a concussion, but it would hurt for a few days,” Starsky said sympathetically. The hand around Hutch’s had tightened. “You want some more water?” 

“Uh-uh. What about Coyle?”

Starsky’s face went cold. “Dobey had him brought in, but the guy had twenty witnesses sayin’ he was at some meeting yesterday afternoon. We had to release him.” A snort. “Wanna bet all twenty are on Coyle’s payroll?”

“No bet. I’m sure they won’t find a single print at my place, either.” Hutch sighed. “Maybe he was right about getting old and tired.”

Starsky stared at him. “You sayin’ we should have dealed?” 

“No.” He said it as firmly as he could. Then, more quietly, “No. I’m saying we got too cocky, and we underestimated him. We can’t afford to do that again.” 

“We won’t,” Starsky stated unequivocally.

Hutch blinked at the ceiling, then at his partner. He could still remember the anger and fear in Starsky’s voice the day before, the vow of vengeance if Hutch were dead and the fierce protectiveness, both to Coyle’s face and in private. The intensity of feeling he always knew was there, but usually wasn’t awake or present to hear so candidly. Softly, he asked, “Yesterday was bad, huh?” 

There was a different kind of frozenness to Starsky’s expression, but his eyes said enough. A long silence, then, “When I came in, I thought you were dead,” he said quietly. 

Hutch understood too well. “He was trying to get to both of us.”

“It worked.” 

“Doesn’t mean he won.” 

Starsky’s smile was bittersweet. “You’re still here.” 

And that was, Hutch had learned over the years, the only answer that mattered. They’d grown up a lot since those days when life seemed so black-and-white, when you only won if you beat the bad guys. Sometimes just surviving was a victory. 

Starsky’s shoulders straightened. “’Sides, that was just the first battle. We’ve still got the war ahead.” 

Hutch could no longer help a yawn, nor the accompanying flinch at the increased volume of pain. “Think I need a little more sleep ’fore I’m up to fighting. Wake me for the next skirmish.”

A fond, “okay.” Hutch could feel Starsky’s weight lift from the mattress, his hand laid back down beside him, and then the creak of a chair as his partner settled back to keep watch. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.” Watching his back. 

Hutch fell into untroubled sleep. 

Office chairs were not meant for battered bodies. Hutch stretched carefully in his seat, aware of his partner’s not-so-subtly watchful eye. The only real injury he’d sustained from Coyle’s “message” had been a nasty blow to the head, but it was amazing how much the rest of his body ached nevertheless in the aftermath. Still, three days in bed, first in the hospital and then at home, could make even the squadroom look good, and Hutch wasn’t about to show any signs of weakness.     

“You doin’ okay?” Starsky asked, head tilted down toward the notepad in his hand, but his eyes peering up at Hutch.

He gave Starsky a grin, getting an amused look in return. “Sure—you know how much I love these chairs. Great for the back.” 

“You could always requisition a new one from Bigelow.”

Hutch shuddered, only half-acting. He would rather have faced a junkie in a dark alley than deal with the department requisition officer. The man was completely devoid of a sense of humor, or any other shred of humanity, for that matter. “Don’t I rate a little more sympathy than that, fresh out of the hospital?” he groused. 

“If you call two days, ‘fresh,’ I got some leftover chicken at home you might like.” 

“You’re disgusting, you know that?” Hutch said dryly.

Starsky just twitched his eyebrows, Groucho Marx-style. 

Hutch sighed. Back to business, but the little breaks were good. Normally, it was just the way they worked together, mixing business with pleasure. But after a scare like the one the week before, it was also a reconnecting, mutual assurance that things were okay and the neither of them was alone. 

Watching each other’s backs. 

Hutch almost smiled, then turned back to his own notes. 

In the days after Coyle’s attack, Starsky had been busy, setting up surveillance on the man, pulling Coyle’s files and those of all the men connected to him, even spreading the word through the street grapevine. The man was theirs, it would just be a matter of time. Coyle might have thought he was sending a message, but all he’d done was put the two of them on their guard, and bring the massive resources and pressure of the LAPD to bear on him. And that hadn’t even been his worst mistake, Hutch mused. Going after the blond half of the team had landed Coyle on Starsky’s hit list, and that was a _bad_ place to be. Hutch would have rather had the department after him, personally.

But so far the surveillance had turned in only routine reports, as had the street: no unusual activities, no suspicious meets, above-board behavior. The fact that Coyle seemed not only aware of but even amused with his tail didn’t increase Hutch’s confidence in the reports, but it was the best that could be done just then. Coyle had to make a mistake sometime. And in the meantime, there was plenty of paperwork to sort through.

Johnny Lonigan and “Skinny” Momo, two of Coyle’s former right-hand men, were still in jail, with Momo’s release date coming up in a few years. Hutch and Starsky had used Momo to help set up Lonigan once, then used an outraged Lonigan to get Coyle. And then there was Lonigan’s wife, or probably ex-wife by now, Laura, who’d been Coyle’s lover for a while. All of them seemed to be out of Coyle’s life now, though, happily so, and probably wouldn’t be of much help. Reading the files on them for the tenth time certainly wasn’t leading anywhere, and Hutch set them aside with a grimace.

The current crop of goons connected to Coyle were still more rumor than fact, no one sure what connections Coyle had kept during his prison stay. The most likely candidates were a possible method of approach, but having been betrayed that way once, no doubt Coyle would be keeping an eye open for just such a move on their part. It was a possibility, but not a first choice. 

That left precious little. The man had almost no family besides a string of mistresses, and no other non-business connections they could find, and they had looked hard. Nor did he seem to have any other vices besides a regrettable involvement in the drug, fencing, smuggling, and protection businesses, with a sidebar of violence as needed to keep the money flowing in, as Hutch had seen up close and all-too-personal. They just couldn’t prove any of it. 

Hutch unconsciously rubbed at the shrinking knot on the back of his head. Well, proof that would stick, anyway. He’d known Coyle would be hard to nail, just hadn’t realized how hard. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Starsky asked quietly from across the desk.

Hutch glanced up with a start, which just encouraged the ache that had started to spread across the back of his skull. He resisted the urge to give the area another rub, knowing already he was under careful scrutiny. “Nothing a bottle of aspirin wouldn’t cure,” he quipped instead, smiling. 

Or maybe grimacing, from Starsky’s look. “We could call it a day…?” his partner offered.

Hutch glanced at the clock. “An hour early? Dobey would have a fit.” 

“He’ll understand.” Starsky’s eyebrows were knit together, aware as was Hutch that he hadn’t said everything was fine. Nothing had been, really, since Mattie Coyle had hit the streets again, but there were different degrees of “not okay,” and being there with Starsky, more or less in one piece, was one Hutch could live with. 

“I’m all right, just a little headache. You get anywhere?”

Starsky tossed the legal pad onto his desk with a sigh and opened one of his drawers, rummaging through it as he spoke. “Can’t find a thing in phone records—no unusual or unidentified calls, not even a repeat number besides his mom. Seems Coyle’s a good boy, calls her once a day.” 

“Any chance of his doing business that way?” Hutch asked, already guessing the answer. Mrs. Annabel Coyle, widow, lived out in Jersey City, hardly a good conduit for local business. 

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe, but we gotta get a tap for that.”   

And with the little concrete evidence they had, they couldn’t even get that from a judge. Hutch’s headache ratcheted up another notch.

Starsky found what he was looking for, and fiddled for a moment with the white aspirin bottle before getting the cap off and holding it out to Hutch. Hutch shook his head, but reached out a hand without protest. He should’ve known better than to think Starsky would let the complaint go by without doing something about it. Three pills tumbled into his palm, and Hutch sketched a half-salute with his full hand in thanks. He was about to swallow them dry, but Starsky preempted him there, too, fetching a paper cup full of water from the nearby cooler. Hutch swallowed the pills, then the water, grateful for the cold liquid, and then tiredly dropped the crumpled cup into the trash. Before, he would have tried for a harder shot into a basket halfway across the room, but that just seemed like too much effort right now. No doubt also noted by Starsky’s sharp eyes. 

“You find anything?” his partner asked as he took his seat again, continuing the conversation as if there’d been no interruption.

“I was just thinking about the money. Even if nothing seems to be going out, we know the money’s gotta be coming in. If we could trace it…”

Starsky shook his head. “You mean after all the launderin’ and dummy corporations set up to cover his tracks?”

“Which we could always trace.”

“If we had account records, which we can’t get without a warrant, but for that we haven’t got enough—”

“—evidence,” Hutch finished with a frustrated breath. “So you’re saying even though the man assaulted me in my own home, we can’t do anything until Coyle makes another move, probably against one of us again.” 

“Hutch…”

“I don’t know about you, Starsky, but I don’t really want to go to your place one day to find you lying on the floor, dead.” 

“Yeah, I really enjoyed that,” Starsky growled.

The rejoinder died in Hutch’s throat. As much as that feeling of helplessness and terror continued to paint his nightmares, he knew Starsky’s end had been nearly as bad. Even being unable to help yourself didn’t compete with being powerless to help your partner—that was just a longer, more painful way to die. Every cop lived with that fear, but Starsky’s very near murder only two years before at the hands of Gunther’s hit men had carved it into Hutch’s every cell. 

He gave Starsky a contrite look, sorry he’d even started down that path. They were both tired and on edge, still a little shaky from a close call, and weren’t always thinking before they spoke. 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Hutch said softly. 

He watched the anger die out of the blue eyes just as quickly, replaced by remorse. Starsky nodded. “Yeah.”

They’d been doing a lot of that lately, blowing off steam at each other, instantly sorry. Neither of them held it against the other. Hutch wasn’t about to start now, not when he knew exactly how Starsky felt. He offered a tired but real smile. “You really think Dobey’ll let us go early?” 

“Scout’s honor.” Starsky held up his hand, fingers spread.

“Starsky, that’s the Vulcan salute.”

Starsky shrugged incorrigibly. “Vulcans don’t lie.”

Hutch shook his head—he’d be crazy to go after that one. He closed the file in front of him. “Well, it’s not like we’re getting anywhere here,” he said too brightly.

Starsky leaned forward, his hand dropping on Hutch’s on top of the file. “We’re gonna get him. Coyle’s takin’ chances—he’s the one who’s cocky now. Maybe we have to wait for him to make the first move, but when he does, we’re gonna be there, and we’re gonna get him.” 

Hutch stared back at him. And then simply said, “Okay.” You didn’t argue with a promise like that.

“Good.” Starsky’s mouth twitched. “Tomorrow. Today, I want a pizza with everything.” His fingers curled briefly around Hutch’s hand before letting go. 

“No anchovies,” Hutch answered automatically, reaching for his jacket as he stood.

“’Course with anchovies. What’s a pizza-with-everything without anchovies?” Starsky looked at him as if he were crazy. 

The old argument felt good, comforting. “Fine, but only on your half. I don’t like fish on my pizza.” 

“I feel sorry for your stomach,” was the unexpected answer this time. Starsky always added some twist that made Hutch sputter with surprised laughter. 

“At least it’ll still be around when I’m old. Hey, you got beer at your place?”

“Just stocked up. We eatin’ there?”

Hutch stopped at the squadroom doors. “Or my place. I’m watching your back, remember?” he said with a sober smile.

Starsky patted Hutch’s stomach once as he passed through the squadroom doors, a gesture of sheer affection. “I didn’t forget. Just didn’t know I was invitin’ ya.” 

“Nice to feel wanted,” Hutch grumbled, but it was to empty air and a swinging door. A second later, an arm reached back through it and grabbed his jacket to pull him along after.

With a grin, Hutch went. 

     Hutch loved his best friend and partner. He would have given his life for Starsky and not even had to think about it. But being together twenty-four-hours-a-day got old very quickly. Even on vacations they’d taken together, their different interests had still offered them plenty of time apart.

     Now, however, after six days of non-stop togetherness, the irritation of close quarters, a constant roommate, and the strain of being on guard around the clock had taken their toll. If Coyle didn’t make a move soon, Hutch was tempted to strangle Starsky for him.

     Instead, he gritted his teeth as he swept a pile of wrinkled, dirty clothes off his own neatly folded slacks and shirt. Or once-neatly folded. The checkered shirt was hopelessly wrinkled now, the tan slacks splattered with specks of black. No doubt the oil Starsky had changed in his car the afternoon before. With clenched jaw, Hutch silently counted to ten in Spanish.

     “Hey, what’re you doin’?” Starsky was frowning as he came out of the bathroom, buttoning the sleeves of _his_ clean, pressed shirt. “Don’t put those on the floor.”

     The perfect target. Hutch wheeled on him with fervor. “I wouldn’t have to put them on the floor, Starsky, if they hadn’t been on my clean clothes in the first place. What am I supposed to wear today?” He shoved his formerly tidy change of clothes at Starsky, who automatically took and inspected them.

     The brunet’s expression briefly twinged with guilt, but it wasn’t evident in his voice as he thrust the pile back at Hutch. “I always put my laundry on that chair. Look, would you quit fussin’? Just wear some of my clothes.” 

     “In case you haven’t noticed, _partner_ , you and I don’t exactly wear the same size. I look like a teenage kid who’s gone through a growth spurt when I wear your clothes.” And then there was the time he’d had to wear a pair of Starsky’s jeans after his had gotten muddy in a chase, only to have them split in a most embarrassing place. He didn’t even want to _think_ about that one. Hutch tugged at his pajama bottoms, trying for some measure of self-control and dignity.

     It didn’t help that Starsky had that look on his face indicating he was trying not to smile. Of all the…

     “What’s so funny?” Hutch demanded.

     “I was just picturing you goin’ to the station dressed like that,” he nodded at Hutch’s bare chest and half pajamas. “Minnie would love it.” Starsky cracked into a grin.

     It was the last straw. Hutch grew quiet. “Fine. You can just take your filthy clothes and your refrigerator full of junk food and your lumpy couch and _shove it_ ,” he said, and stalked toward the bathroom with his wrinkled and dirty load. He’d wear them to his own house, but then he was changing and showering there, in his own territory. Even to stay alive, this was no way to live. 

     He saw Starsky’s vanishing smile with grim satisfaction just before turning away, and his partner hurried around the couch to intercept him before the bathroom. “Would you slow down a minute? I didn’t mean it like that.”

     “Get lost,” he tossed over his shoulder.

     “Hutch, c’mon. You’re lettin’ this get to ya. It’s only for a little while, then Coyle’ll be back in jail and—”

     He stopped. “And we can start living our lives again, at least until the next clown with our number hits the streets and it starts all over again. Aren’t you sick of this, Starsky, living like animals, always watching out for the hunters? How many times have we done this? Remember Alex Drew? And Artie Solkin? How ’bout Simon Marcus? I still have nightmares about him.”

     A flush of color, anger and hurt, twisted Starsky’s expression. Marcus was to him what Forest was to Hutch, the most brutal and willingly forgotten of memories. But instead of the explosion Hutch had been angling for, he only turned away. 

     Hutch flinched. This was all wrong. He took a step toward his best friend. “Starsky—”

     “Go to hell, Hutchinson.”

     He started to splutter. “You are the most unreasonable, pig-headed—”

     Starsky didn’t look back, too incensed to respond, just stormed toward his bedroom, leaving Hutch in mid-rant. 

     Which he abruptly cut off. Starsky could infuriate him like no other, without question. But he also loved the man like no other. 

The anger vanished. 

“Starsk,” he said softly, sincerely.

     His partner stopped as if he’d run into a wall. 

     “I’m sorry.”

     The stiff shoulders sagged and Starsky turned, expression as apologetic as his tone. “Yeah.” He suddenly looked as weary as Hutch felt. “It’s just…”

     “I know.” 

     Starsky was facing him now, looking for once every bit of his nearly forty years. “So we’re a little more careful for a few days, spend a coupla nights at each other’s place. It’s worth it to put these guys away, isn’t it?”

     “Is it?” Hutch asked quietly.

     “It is to me. If we weren’t doin’ this, somebody else would have to, and some of the scumbags would be out on the street, doin’ this to other people. Is that better?”

     Hutch rubbed at his forehead. Starsky’s quiet logic always seemed to cut through his frustration. “I’m not wishing this on somebody else, Starsky, I just…wish we didn’t have to do it. Look at what it’s doing to us.”

     Starsky didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said very clearly he understood and felt the same way. But there were no other options. They were only eight years from retirement, and to give up the job at that point wouldn’t guarantee the bad guys would stop coming after them, and would just leave them more defenseless, not to mention broke. And to wish it any other way would be to negate years of hard-fought victories and small differences they’d made. When it came down to it, Hutch wouldn’t have taken that back for anything. 

     Even with the occasional discomforts. Not that he was the only one sacrificing; if he were honest, he knew they were at Starsky’s now because his partner had nearly starved to death at Hutch’s place, suffering without his salami and peanut butter and cold pizza, and bored to death without his models or books to keep him busy. A few wrinkled clothes weren’t that high a price, were they? It was really up to them if they let it get to them, let alone set them at each other’s throats. 

    Abashed, he shook his head in surrender. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes. But we’re stopping at my place on the way in.”

     Starsky ghosted a smile and winked at him, and went off to finish dressing. Hutch stared after him, reminded why, despite the cabin fever, there was still no one he would rather have been cooped up with indefinitely. Shaking his head, he went into the bathroom.

     He took a shower anyway, the hot water too enticing for the kinks in his back. It seemed to wash away some of his frustrations, too, and Hutch was whistling as he dried off and pulled on his slacks. He almost didn’t hear the thump from the other side of the door. 

Puzzled, Hutch paused, listening. 

     No other sounds besides some movement in the bedroom next door, no doubt as Starsky got ready. Shrugging, Hutch shook out the wrinkled checked shirt before putting it on and beginning to button it. 

     Another thump, louder this time.

     Hutch frowned. “Starsky?” he called, reaching for the door knob. He could have sworn he’d heard his name called. Hutch opened the door.

     Just in time to hear the almost simultaneous thud and Starsky’s choked cry.

     Hutch lunged out of the bathroom, and nearly ran into the large figure of a man who was just fleeing the bedroom. Definitely not Starsky, and with frightened fury, Hutch grabbed for him. But the man was fast, and agile, tearing out of Hutch’s grasp and rushing for the open front door.

     There was a split-second of indecision: go after the man or see to Starsky, from whom there ominously hadn’t been another sound. The hesitation decided the matter for Hutch, the intruder disappearing so fleet-footedly, he doubted he would have caught him, especially without shoes. His heart was straining toward the silent bedroom, anyway. Capturing the bad guy would do Starsky no good if he was hurt and needed attention.

     Hutch scrambled for the bedroom doorway.

     He didn’t even see Starsky for a minute, the center of the dim room occupied only by Starsky’s rumpled bed. And then the guttural groan from his right whipped his head around to see Starsky pressed against the wall next to Hutch, between the dresser and the corner of the room. At least he was on his feet, and Hutch jerked a few steps closer, opening his mouth to ask what had happened. 

The new angle allowed him to see what he hadn’t before: the knife protruding from Starsky’s palm, pinning his hand to the wall.

     His mouth worked for a moment, but there was no exclamation strong enough for what he was seeing. Starsky’s right arm was raised, his hand nearly at shoulder level, and the blood had already trickled down his arm to drip off his elbow onto the floor. His fingers were spasming, each involuntary tug tearing his skin against the edge of the inch-wide blade. Starsky’s face was white, tears in his eyes as he kept his unsteady balance, his other arm reaching slowly across his chest toward the impaled one in an effort to free it before he collapsed. What damage he would do to his hand if he fell, and what agony it would cause, Hutch’s mind quickly pictured against his will.

     It was the pain in Starsky’s twisted face that got Hutch moving again. He leapt for the bed, grabbing an askew pillow and, with one jerk, shook the pillow out of its case. Then he was in front of Starsky, fighting the paralysis of his own panic. Hutch couldn’t seem to breathe properly, but Starsky looked like he was going to pass out any minute and that took precedence.

     Hutch did a mental triage even as he started working. First was to gently but firmly stop the hand that had almost made it to the trapped one. Hutch could understand the inclination, but it would only make the wound worse. Instead, he hooked his partner’s good left hand onto the open front edge of the checkered shirt. It would give Starsky something to hold on to, maybe to even hold himself up with. He pressed his side against Starsky’s body just in case, pinning it to the wall in an effort to make sure he stayed upright until the knife was out. 

     “Hutch…” It came out more as a groan, Starsky blinking as he tried to focus on him. 

    “Right here, buddy. I’ll have you free in a second.” He said it warmly, reassuringly, but his attention was completely on the knife, examining it. You weren’t supposed to pull out a penetrating object, but Hutch couldn’t see any other way. There was no possibility of cutting it at the point where it entered the wall, not without causing excruciating pain and a lot more damage to the hand, and he wasn’t about to wait until the paramedics got there to remove it. At least it didn’t look deeply embedded in the wall. One pull should be enough, as clean and swift as he could make it. 

     “Saw it comin’ but…didn’t have time…” Starsky was murmuring on, voice shaking. It wasn’t a large wound, but Hutch knew the hand was packed with nerves, and between the intense pain and blood loss, Starsky was already fighting shock. 

     “I know,” Hutch soothed. “I’m sorry I missed getting in on the action.” Very, very gently, he took hold of the handle of the knife.

     A small shudder ran through Starsky’s body and he moaned. But his head tilted back and his pain-darkened eyes met his partner’s as Hutch glanced at him. “’S okay. ’S my turn, right?” He blinked, an attempt at a grin folding as his eyes watered. “Take it out. Hurts. It hurts.” He dropped his head onto Hutch’s shoulder, his last two words repeating with each breath, mingled with what sounded like “Oh, Hutch.” 

     Hutch swallowed, stared hard at the knife, clamped his teeth together, and pulled.

     The knife slid out of both the wall and Starsky’s hand, fresh blood pooling in its wake. His shoulder muffled another cry, Starsky’s body jerking once in reaction. And then both the hand and the rest of Starsky would have fallen if Hutch hadn’t been hanging on. As it was, by sandwiching Starsky against the wall, Hutch managed a controlled slide to the floor, leaving the injured man sitting propped against it. 

     Careful not to dislodge the head sagging on his shoulder, Hutch twisted the pillow case into a strip and wrapped it around the bleeding palm, making it around three times and tucking in the edges to make sure it didn’t unravel. It was quickly soaked, but it would provide the needed pressure to start staunching the flow. 

     That done, he gently slid away from his partner, lifting Starsky’s sweat-soaked head back against the wall with regret. Starsky’s eyes were closed, but Hutch gave his cheek a pat. “I’ll be right back,” he promised. Thank God there was a phone in the room. Even leaving his partner long enough to call for help was hard. 

     Help was soon on the way. Hutch grabbed the blanket and the other pillow off the bed before returning to the patient huddled on the floor.

     “Let’s make you a little more comfortable, huh?” he said as he eased Starsky first to his side, then onto his back, being careful to jar the injured hand as little as possible. Starsky’s breathing was too fast, his skin clammy. Definitely impending shock, but Hutch didn’t let himself sound worried as he snapped the blanket out over the prone body. “Ambulance’ll be here soon. I’ll ride in with you, then I’ll call Dobey. Maybe we can finally pin this one on Coyle.” He winced at his choice of words, but there was no doubt in his mind Coyle was the one to blame for Starsky lying there bleeding on his bedroom floor. Hutch pulled the pillowcase off the second pillow, stuffing both naked pillows under Starsky’s knees and legs. Carefully picking up the injured hand, he wound and tied the second pillowcase around it, too. 

     Starsky groaned and shifted, squinting at him a moment later. “Told ya…there were worse things ’an bein’ cooped up for a few days,” he mumbled. 

     “Didn’t even do us any good. I was taking my time in the bathroom while you were out here getting stabbed,” Hutch said bitterly. But he was gentle as he settled on the floor next to Starsky and held the wrapped hand. Raising it should also help slow the bleeding, right? 

     The tips of Starsky’s fingers protruding from the wrapping were cold and tinged with blue, but they bent in an effort to return his clasp, and Hutch suddenly found his own eyes filling. It wasn’t fair. Hadn’t they done enough, paid enough already? Coyle had been right about them getting old and tired. Hutch couldn’t recall ever feeling more so.

     Except maybe when he’d sat in the hospital, watching Starsky die.

     “Don’t. This’s Coyle’s fault, not…yours,” Starsky said as sternly as he could with a breathless voice. “I don’t—” His hand contracted suddenly, nearly jerking out of Hutch’s, and he gasped. 

     Hutch quickly leaned over him, his free hand going to Starsky’s rigid shoulder. “Shh. Help’s almost here. It’ll be better in a minute.” He could remember his own hand being injured, burned by the explosion Solkin had rigged for him in the trunk of his car, how horrible that pain had been, and could fully empathize. Starsky had held him then, distracted and soothed him until the worst was over. 

     Starsky gulped a few times before opening his eyes again and blinking the tears free. “’S better…’M okay.” 

     “Yeah, okay,” Hutch played along with a humorless smile. “You look terrific.”

     Starsky almost laughed, then grimaced, then settled with a sigh. “You know what I love ’bout ya?” His voice was sounding less dazed, even if it was still weak. 

The shock was receding, Hutch thought gratefully, and tucked the blanket under Starsky’s nearest side as he raised an eyebrow. “My winning personality?”

     “Your sense of humor.” 

     Hutch snorted. “You sure you didn’t get hit on the head, too?” He suddenly realized it was a possibility—he hadn’t even thought to check for injuries other than the obvious. He was definitely slipping. Hutch would have corrected the omission then except he could already hear the distant ambulance, and they would do a better job of it than he. 

     “’S not always us,” Starsky said suddenly, and Hutch stared at him, worried it was failing lucidity and a sign of worsening. 

     “What isn’t?”

     “The ones bein’ hunted. How many times we seen it on the street, in-innocent people gettin’ killed? An’…we already buried Graham, Marchetti, Marco. We’re the lucky ones, Hutch.” His words caught as another cramp seized his hand, but his determined stare never wavered.

     Hutch just looked at him. That was almost a little too lucid. Starsky’s optimism had been tempered over the years by tragedy and hardship, but it had never died. Often after a crisis, when Hutch would sift despairingly through the ashes looking for answers, reasons, Starsky would be the one to remind him of what they still had: their lives, their beliefs, each other. Not small things, but it still terrified him how fragile it all was, how easily everything could be taken away without his being able to do anything about it. Starsky always lived in the present, grateful for what he had. Hutch remembered the past, and it made him fear for the future. 

     “You think too much,” Starsky murmured, reading his mind again. “’S not just luck we’re still here. We’ve got something they haven’t got.” 

It was the same thing he’d said to Starsky years before, after Iron Mike had just “borrowed” them to help him work what would become his last case. And Hutch still remembered what he’d said when Starsky had asked him what he meant. “Each other,” he repeated softly now.

     Starsky had broken out in a fresh sweat, his hand twitching in Hutch’s grasp and his jaw braced so stiffly against the pain that he couldn’t answer, but his eyes were satisfied.

Their intruder had left the door open when he’d run out, and Hutch could hear the paramedics coming inside, calling out for them. He called back, his hand tightening briefly on Starsky’s shoulder before he let go. A minute later, he was displaced, watching as the medics worked on Starsky, still holding his partner’s gaze. 

Hutch knew watching each other’s back wasn’t the whole answer—the last week had certainly rubbed that in. But who really had any promises in life? All Starsky had been trying to say was that the being there for each other, cushioning the falls, caring and loving, made it bearable, no matter what life brought. It was more than a lot of people had, cops or civilians. 

No, it didn’t make it all better. But it helped a heck of a lot. 

They lifted Starsky onto a stretcher, preparing to take him down to the ambulance. Hutch’s eyes flickered over to the gash in the wall, stained with the blood that also soaked the carpet below it. Starsky’s blood. He stared at it briefly, before turning his back on the sight and following his partner. Hutch wanted to make sure Starsky would be all right, and to be there for his friend. 

But then, once and for all, he was going to bring Matthew Coyle down.

Hutch sat in the darkened bedroom and nursed his growing hate. 

In front of him, Starsky slept the dead sleep of the injured and drugged, his heavily bandaged hand lying next to him on the pillow. The doctors had said there would be some minor nerve damage, not enough to really impair Starsky’s use of the hand or to keep him off the job, but enough that it would always be a reminder of the attack. They’d done a little repair work, stitched up the hand, and then sent the groggy patient home with an assortment of drugs, instructions, and warnings. The therapy would start after the stitches came out. 

Starsky had been out of it throughout, too high first on pain, then on painkillers to take much in. Hutch was the one left to pace the halls, watch over his wounded partner, worry and consult and report. And all the while, he’d thought about Matt Coyle.

The sight of his sleeping friend made the hate both easier and harder. Easier, because the unnatural sleep and wrapped hand were blatant reminders of Coyle’s cruelty. The man wasn’t trying to kill them, a desire Hutch could have easier understood. He just wanted to hurt, to send his “messages” regardless of what damage he did. It wasn’t hard to hate a man like that. 

What did make it harder was the intense gratitude Hutch couldn’t deny that Starsky was still there to worry over, that it had been his hand and not his life Coyle had gone after. It wasn’t easy to fill yourself with loathing when you were already full of gratitude.

Hutch slumped deeper into the chair and rubbed at his tired, burning eyes. 

The doorbell rang. His head jerked up, hand fighting the urge to go for his gun. Coyle probably wouldn’t come after them again so soon, letting his little message sink in first. Most likely it was someone from the station, Dobey maybe, who’d heard what had happened and wanted to see how Starsky was doing. A glance at his undisturbed partner and Hutch stood and went out into the living room to answer the door.

The delivery man with flowers wasn’t what Hutch had expected, and his eyebrows rose as he took in the large, elaborate bouquet.

“Flowers for Mr.—” The short delivery man staggering behind the armful of flowers consulted his clipboard. “Starky?”

“Starsky,” Hutch corrected absently. “I’ll take them.”

The little man seemed grateful to give up his load, and Hutch balanced the large vase carefully as he set it down on the table just inside the door. Flowers, already? Someone sure had acted fast. He spotted the small white envelope nestled among the greenery and, curious, plucked it out. 

“Could you sign please, Mr. Starsky?” the delivery man asked, holding out a clipboard.

Hutch ignored him as he pulled the tiny scalloped-edged card from the envelope. The message was brief and in a familiar flowing hand:

_Best wishes for a speedy recovery, Detective Starsky._

     The delicate card crumpled in his hand and, flushing, Hutch picked up the bouquet and all but threw it back at the delivery man. “Take it back,” he growled.

     The man’s eyes were wide. “But—”

     Hutch slammed the door in his face. And stood there a long minute, leaning against it with one arm, trying to stifle the urge to break something, preferably Matt Coyle’s face. That was how cops lost their badges and sometimes their freedom or even their lives, giving in to rages like that. But the hatred had become a living thing, reverberating through him, seeking escape. 

     The sound of a shuffling footstep snapped his head up to see Starsky standing in the doorway, good hand cradling the bad as the brunet looked at him in some confusion. 

     “What’s goin’ on?”

     Hutch immediately straightened, revulsion temporarily stowed. He strode across the room toward Starsky. “Everything’s fine. What’re you doing out of bed?”

“Thought I heard the door.” Starsky looked wan and wobbly, eyes still unfocused from the medication. 

     For once, Hutch was glad for his partner’s bewildered state because he would never have been able to hide his feelings from an alert Starsky. “It was just Dobey asking how you were,” he lied smoothly, leading Starsky slowly back to bed with a guiding hand.

     “Sounded…mad.” The words were a little slurred, and Hutch’s conscience pricked him for taking advantage of his partner’s obvious fuzziness.

     He eased the clumsy body onto the bed, coaxing him to lie flat and covering him. “You were probably dreaming. Go back to sleep, Starsk—I’ll be right here. Trust me.” He resisted a wince. Starsky was in no shape to discuss this and would have to trust him to do what was right now. And that included making sure Matt Coyle sent no more “messages.” Starsky would agree with that if he were able. 

     Still, something held him there at the bedside. Starsky had always seen more blacks and whites where Hutch had seen gray. Even when they’d agreed on the corruption of Iron Mike’s deal with Coyle, Hutch had still understood the older captain’s reasoning, while all that had mattered to Starsky was that it was wrong. 

     He had to wonder if his partner would think the same of him now. 

     “Trust me,” he whispered again to the already deeply asleep figure, as if that were all that was needed. And then Hutch silently, reluctantly, crept out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and went to make a few phone calls. 

It felt naked, going on a dangerous meet without back-up. He’d learned the foolishness of that the hard way years ago, when doing so twice had nearly cost him his life both times. After getting chewed out by a furious, frightened Starsky for the second time, Hutch had finally gotten the message. But his partner was temporarily out of the picture, sleeping back at his place under Huggy’s watchful eye, and Hutch was on his own. 

     He paced the short length of the alley, sticking to the side still unlighted by the rising sun. Shadows were good for hiding in, both for protection and from shame. 

     A sound at the mouth of the alley made his fingers twitch on the butt of his gun they were resting on, and he whirled to face the new arrival. “Who’s there?”

     “Really, Detective, do we need to resort to such dramatics?” The shadows resolved into the form of a well-dressed older man, expensive suit and tie less of an indication of his status than was the air of authority to his bearing…and the two large men who stood a discrete distance behind their boss.

     “Roper,” Hutch nodded shortly. “Glad you could make it.” He tried not to sound sarcastic; cops didn’t usually thank heads of organized crime families. But this meeting was different. He’d never met the man in front of him before, but in a way they were connected. Several years before, Dobey had been the one to fill Hutch in on how his partner had gone to the gangster to beg for help to save Hutch’s life, to find Callendar, the man hired to kill Roper. The hitman had in his veins the antidote to the plague Hutch had been dying from. Roper had turned Starsky down then, but Callendar’s subsequent death, after he’d come to the hospital to meet Starsky, had somehow left the gangster feeling indebted to the brunet. Even the fact that Callendar had managed to shoot Roper first hadn’t changed his avowed determination to someday do something for Starsky in return. Starsky had always spurned the debt, not wanting any returned favors from a mobster. He probably had never dreamed his partner would call in the marker behind his back. 

     Roper shrugged. “I don’t particularly care for your choice of meeting places, but for your partner, I come.” 

     “Thank you,” Hutch said stiffly. He wasn’t really keen on taking favors from gangsters, either, but then, he wasn’t offering the man anything in return. If Roper felt he owed them, Hutch wasn’t above taking advantage of it. 

     “So what can Roper do for you, Detective?” The man spread his arms expansively. 

     Hutch answered without hesitation. “I want Matt Coyle.”

     Roper seemed more amused than surprised. “You want Matt Coyle. Just like that, eh?”

     “Cut the act, Roper—I’m not in the mood. I know you two are in the same business. I just want to know when and where the next meeting’s going down.”

    “Oh, is that all?” The gangster laughed. “Do you take Roper for a fool, Detective?”

     Hutch thoughtfully ran a hand over his mouth then, taking the plunge, waved it, finger extended, under Roper’s nose, disregarding the two henchmen who moved closer. “You said you owed Starsky a favor. I’m calling it in for him. This isn’t about you—you’ll be free to go if I get what I want. But I _want_ Matthew Coyle.” 

     Roper studied him for a moment. “You are far more persuasive than your partner, Detective Hutchinson. I pity Mr. Coyle for having made you his enemy.” He paused. “All right, I will do as you ask. But understand this. First, this will clear the debt. And second, Roper always repays. I know of your family, your parents and your sister in Minnesota, and your partner’s mother in New York. If you cross me, you will find me a formidable enemy, as well.” 

     Hutch didn’t let himself blink at the mention of their families. This wouldn’t work if he let Roper get the upper hand. He just nodded. “That goes both ways, Roper.”

     The older man nodded. “Understood. I will be in touch then, Detective. Expect a call by the end of the week.” 

     Hutch nodded back once. Roper and his entourage turned and disappeared into the street, no doubt to a waiting limousine. That a man of that power had agreed to meet him at all, let alone in a garment district alley, was testament to how seriously he took his “debt.” Hutch just hoped that meant he would keep his word. 

     The alley empty and quiet, he finally took a deep breath. His hands were shaking a little, the effect of what he’d just done sinking in. Starsky would probably kill him, both for the risk and for the shady legality of his actions, but at least they’d both be alive for him to do so. And Matt Coyle would be behind bars again. That was worth the cost.

     Shoving his traitorous hands into his jacket pockets, Hutch strode out of the alley to get his car and headed back to his partner’s.

     The fact that Starsky didn’t realize something was going on sooner than he did just showed how much the attack had affected him. Even sleeping most of the first day-and-a-half away, he still looked haggard and shuttered, content to sit on the couch and watch TV, his bad hand in his lap. 

     Hutch couldn’t blame him too much, not after seeing how white Starsky had gone after accidentally bumping the bandaged hand on the edge of the bathroom sink. The injury had been both a physical and mental shock, and it naturally would take time for both to heal. Hutch didn’t push it, just made sure the patient was fed and took his pills on time, and didn’t sink too far into himself. 

     But the befuddled cloud of the first few days soon gave way to growing awareness and clarity, and more direct questions: What was being done about Coyle? Had there been any new developments? Why wasn’t Hutch at the station, working on the case? The blond’s vague answers were no longer satisfying Starsky. Hutch had expected no less, not from a fellow detective, certainly not one who knew him so well. But with any hope, Roper would call before it came to a head, and he could bring his partner Coyle’s arrest tied with a nice bow.

     He should have known better.

     Starsky was eating lunch, or at least trying to, one-handed. Hutch would have been amused by the spectacle, if not for his partner’s obvious frustration. Starsky was not a patient man when he was handicapped, even though he’d had more than enough such experience over the years. 

He finally dropped his spoon in disgust, splashing drops of pea soup onto the tablecloth. Hutch looked up from his own bowl with a questioning look.

     “I hate soup,” Starsky groused. “I’m _hungry_.” 

     Hutch put his own spoon down, torn between sympathy and amusement at the petulant behavior. “We can try the stew again,” he offered helpfully.

     “I’m not talkin’ about stuff you eat with a spoon—I want some _food_.”

     Hutch considered that. “Well, last time we tried that you got more taco on your shirt than in your mouth.” He smirked at Starsky.

     His partner gave him a wilting look. “It’s not nice to make fun of an invalid.” Starsky quickly perked up. “Hey, how ’bout pizza? I can eat that with one hand.” 

     “Oh, Starsky, come on. We have that so often, I’m starting to dream about tomato sauce.”

     “Please?” 

     He never had been able to resist that pleading tone coupled with that uniquely Starsky hopeful look. The brunet must have had his parents wound around his finger. Then again, knowing Rachel Starsky, maybe Starsky had perfected it just for him. Hutch always knew he was a pushover. He sighed. “Okay, but I get to pick the toppings.”

     “Fine.” Starsky was too happy to argue.

     “And tomorrow we’re having something healthy.”

     “Pizza’s healthy,” Starsky answered smugly. “It’s got all four food groups: cheese, bread, tomato, and meat.” 

     Hutch was already on his feet, reaching for the phone book when he realized he already knew the pizza place number by heart. Swallowing another sigh, he changed direction toward the phone. “Not to mention that popular fifth food group, grease,” he answered. He made the call, watching Starsky attack the soup with renewed gusto, then returned to the table to his own cooling bowl.

     The question came out of the blue, Starsky seemingly still engrossed in his bowl. “So when are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

     Hutch started, blinked, and bluffed. “I thought you knew the drill. Pizza’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”

     Starsky patiently shook his head. “Save it for Dobey. What’s goin’ on, Hutch?” 

     The calmness of his partner’s voice inexplicably unnerved him. No smokescreen was going to work this time. Hutch put his own spoon down and met his partner’s eyes, then slid his glance away. “I’m waiting for a lead on Coyle.” 

     “Okay.” Clearly expecting more.

     Hutch shook his head. “That’s it. Next time Coyle does business, we’ll be there.” 

     The corner of Starsky’s mouth drew into a smile. “Huggy’s network gettin’ better, or you find a direct connection to God?”

     “Close,” Hutch hedged, then glancing once more at Starsky, took the leap. “Roper.” 

     Starsky’s smile disappeared. “Roper as in Al Roper? As in head of the Roper crime family? The guy who thinks I killed Callendar just for him?”

     “Talking to some street dealer wasn’t gonna cut it, Starsk. Coyle doesn’t do business at that level, you know that. To catch a big fish, you need big bait.”

     “You called in my favor.” Starsky was very still, voice too even for Hutch’s liking. 

     “Well…yeah. You weren’t going to.” 

     “There was a reason for that.” Starsky leaned forward. “Hutch, the man’s been indirectly linked to 17 homicides and millions of dollars’ worth of heroin trade. Making a deal with him is like sellin’ your soul to the devil.” 

     “I didn’t make a deal with him,” Hutch said reasonably. “I asked him for help.” 

     “Because he thinks he owes us a favor.” 

     “So what? We’re not doing anything for him.” 

     “I suppose you told him we were gonna arrest him at the meet, too.”

     “No, I offered him immunity for that, but it’s nothing we haven’t offered 50 other guys in similar set-ups.” 

     “No. Not similar. Letting a street punk go who’s more a danger to himself than anyone else is a lot different from giving a guy like Roper a free ticket.” 

     Starsky wasn’t mad as Hutch had expected, but he was upset, and Hutch wasn’t sure which bothered him more. And his own exasperation was starting to come out, too. “It’s not a free ticket if he’s the one who lets us in on the deal, Starsky. We wouldn’t even have the chance to arrest him if he weren’t helping us out.” 

     “Yeah, so anytime we stumble onto something we didn’t work for, we can look the other way? I don’t think IA would like your new philosophy, buddy.” 

     “You know, I thought you’d react like this—that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.” 

     Starsky’s eyes darkened, a bad sign. “’Cause you knew I would think it’s wrong? How many other things haven’t you told me ’cause you knew I wouldn’t like it, _partner_?” 

     “None.” Hutch’s tone was hard. That his trustworthiness could come into question now, because of this, stung. “I know that’s not the way we work, and I didn’t like doing it this time, but you were hurt and not exactly up to discussing it, and I had to make a decision. And I made it. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I’m a little tired of being Coyle’s punching bag, aren’t you?” 

     “Yeah, but that still doesn’t give us the right to get him any way we can. Hutch, there’s a line there—”

     “That I haven’t crossed.” They were both leaning over the table, less than a foot between them. “Think about it, Starsky. Iron Mike said you have to give a little to get a lot. The giving was the problem. When we took the freebie Coyle offered us as a trial offer back then, we didn’t cross that line because we were getting, not giving. It’s-it’s—” he raised his voice as Starsky tried to interrupt, “—it’s the same thing here. I’m not giving Roper anything, just getting.” 

     “Difference is, Coyle didn’t give himself up with his freebie. No strings attached, and nothin’ in the books says we can’t act on a tip. Roper’s offer includes immunity. That’s a pretty big string, Hutch.” 

     “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken it,” Hutch said abruptly. “Tell me, if it’d been you, if I’d just been attacked and you had this chance to keep it from happening again, tell me you wouldn’t have done it.”

     Starsky’s face twisted, and Hutch knew he had him. It was ~~the~~ one thing they could always agree on, the need to protect your partner. “Maybe,” he finally admitted. “But only after I’d tried everything else.” 

     “I don’t want to give him that time.” Hutch finally backed off, easing back his tone and stance, implicitly asking his partner to try to understand. “Starsk…I’m tired. I’m tired of seeing you get hurt, of waking up in a hospital, of being afraid of guys we know are dirty but can’t put away. If I can find a way to make sure that doesn’t happen, I’m gonna take it. But not if it means breaking or even bending the law. I’m not Dirty Harry, and I’m not about to go the way Fargo and Slate did. When the law stops meaning something to me, I’ll turn my badge in. But…I can live with this one, Starsk. I know it’s close to the line, but it doesn’t cross it, and that’s enough for me. I’ll even run it by Dobey first, if you want, but let me do this. I _need_ to put this guy away.”

     Starsky was studying him, listening hard, clearly struggling with the idea. It shouldn’t have been a new to him; the truth was that cases sometimes got personal, and when it did for one of them, the other went along for the ride. Hutch had just had his fill of this case, of this monster, of living in fear for them both. Couldn’t Starsky see that? 

     And set aside his values just that one time?

     Hutch sighed. That was what he was asking, wasn’t it? The decision he’d made didn’t compromise him, he was sure of that now. But if it did Starsky, how fair was it to ask his partner to ignore that? 

     “Starsk…”

     “Okay.” 

     Hutch looked up. “Okay?” he asked in surprise. 

     “Okay. I’m not sayin’ I buy this, so don’t ask me to do it again. But it’s not technically against the books and I see what you’re sayin’. And…” It was his turn to look away, examining the tablecloth. “I trust you. If you feel that way about it, I’ll go along with ya.” 

     For all the times Starsky had risked his life for him, had cared for and cheered up and cried with him, Hutch had never rarely felt the depth of their friendship as he did at that moment. Starsky was offering up his soul, what he believed in, what he could live with afterward, in trust.

     It was awfully humbling. 

     The doorbell ringing saved him from having to answer. It was a good thing because he wasn’t sure he could have around the lump in his throat. He put a hand on Starsky’s good one, holding his gaze a long minute until a quirk of his partner’s mouth let him go. He briefly smiled back, then went to get the door.

     The pizza actually smelled enticing, and Hutch hurried to get out plates and napkins. The atmosphere in the kitchen was still a little awkward, more emotions and honesty than either of them were usually comfortable with hanging in the air. 

     Starsky, typically, ventured to speak first.

     “About the beer…”

     It was good to have something neutral to talk about. “You’re off the medication now, Starsk—you can have some if you want.” 

     “I don’t think—”

     “No, really, I even cleared it with your doctor.”

     “Thanks, but—”

     “Probably do us both good.” 

     “Yeah.” But still he didn’t move.

     Hutch stopped in mid-chew. “Then what’s the hold-up?”

“Could ya open it for me?” Starsky asked sheepishly.

     It wasn’t that funny, but for the first time in over a week, Hutch started to laugh. 

     The call came two days later. There was no introduction, no pleasantries, just a time and a place after which the speaker, no doubt someone they would never have been able to connect to Roper, hung up without another word. 

     Hutch’s hand rested on the receiver a moment, wondering how Roper would have known they were at work or what his number was, then decided he didn’t want to know. He looked up at Starsky, who was watching him over the top of a file from across the desk. 

     “Tonight, 11, behind one of Roper’s warehouses.”

     “You got an address?”

     “Yup. I guess it’s showtime.”

     “Yeah…” Starsky was looking at some point on the floor behind him, unusually sober. It didn’t help that he still looked tired and worn with pain. He’d insisted he was ready to work, arguing it was only his hand that was injured and not even his left hand at that, but Hutch knew he was still getting back on his feet. Hutch leaned forward, lowering his voice. 

     “You want me to run it by Dobey?”

     Starsky shook himself out of whatever he was thinking, looking up at his partner first with surprise, then a slight smile. “He’d never go for it. You know he wants us to stay away from Coyle.”

     “I mean the deal with Roper.” 

     Starsky became serious again, and Hutch was struck by how old he looked. Old and weary. “I know what you mean. I said I was okay with this an’ I meant it.” 

     “Okay. But I still think you should stay home.” Hutch waved toward Starsky’s injured limb. “You’re not up to this—you’re barely cleared for desk duty.” 

     “You’re not goin’ alone.” That was said with a firmness Hutch knew was useless to challenge.

     “I could take Gabe, or Eney…”

     Starsky didn’t answer, just gave him a look. After so many years, words were often superfluous, only a glance needed to remind one of them they already knew what the other was thinking. And Starsky wasn’t about to let anyone else watch his partner’s back with Matt Coyle around. Hutch was well aware he already had some making-up to do for the still-unforgiven sin of going to meet Roper by himself. He raised both hands in surrender. 

     “All right, all right. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re tired and miserable from standing around in the cold in the middle of the night.” 

     Starsky’s rejoinder would have been highly insulting if it hadn’t been said so fondly and with a warm grin. After all, they both knew Hutch would be there to look after him if he needed it.

     And some wondered why they stayed with the job. Smiling even as he shook his head, Hutch went back to work. 

     The meeting place reminded Hutch of the spot where they’d busted Coyle the last time: private, open, dark, with a lot of shadows to hide in. He’d managed to talk Starsky into secreting himself in one that had a wall at his back; knowing no one would be sneaking up behind his partner gave Hutch one less thing to worry about. Starsky, on the other hand, was no slouch even disabled and tired, and made certain Hutch chose a spot where Starsky could see him. The days of rushing in half-cocked and simply trusting things would turn out okay were long behind them. Planning, relying on experience, and watching each other’s backs very closely were the rules of the game now. 

     And so, prepared, they waited. 

     It was more than an hour later, just before the meet was scheduled, when Hutch watched a black limousine pull into the area. Roper or Coyle, he wondered, but no one got out. It was another four minutes before another black car, this one merely a luxury model, arrived from the other direction. Hutch glanced at the vague outline of his partner still poised at ready, then turned his attention to the scene before him.

     As it turned out, Roper was in the limo, his driver hurrying around to open his door and help the older man out. Coyle also had a chauffeur ~~,~~ and straightened his suit as he climbed out as the door was held for him. The smug look, the half-smile, even the fake Irish brogue were all there in full-force as pleasantries were exchanged, and Hutch tightened his damp hand impatiently around his Colt. 

     It didn’t take long to get down to business, Roper producing an attaché case full of money, Coyle another case full of something white. Both bags were examined, then traded with a minimum of flourish. Just businessmen conducting a deal. Hutch was sickened by the sight.

     Across the way, he saw Starsky shifting. He could just imagine what was going through his partner’s mind; the last time Starsky had seen Roper, it had been to beg for Hutch’s life, and fruitlessly at that. To see him now, in the midst of an illegal transaction no less, and let him get away with it, had to be eating at Starsky. He could still run out there, stop the deal, arrest all parties involved, and they would have Roper, too. Hutch hadn’t told Starsky about the threat against their families if Hutch didn’t keep his promise of immunity, and he swallowed now, wishing he had and willing his partner not to do something stupid.

     But Hutch had made a promise, and Starsky knew it and said he would honor it. Hutch saw his partner fade back into the shadows again, and was awed once more at the faith his friend had in him. 

     The transaction finished, Roper and Coyle headed back to their cars, carrying the exchanged cases. And Hutch suddenly realized he’d overlooked something in his hurry to deal—Roper was getting away not only with his freedom, but also thousands of dollars’ worth of heroin. 

And that was definitely crossing the line.

     Hutch licked his lips, glancing across the way again. Starsky was still waiting patiently for him to make a move, trusting him to make the decision. Surely he’d have realized by now, too, what Roper’s immunity meant, but he was still leaving it up to Hutch. 

     Hutch decided. His own values he could have betrayed and still lived with himself somehow, if never again as a cop. But Starsky’s he couldn’t compromise. 

     He motioned to Starsky, indicating Coyle’s car with one hand, and himself and Roper’s car with the other. Major change of plan, but Starsky just nodded. Hutch wished he could actually see his partner’s face instead of just the motion of his head, but there would be time to talk later. For now, they had a job to do.

     He slipped out of hiding just as the cars started to move, seeing Starsky mirror his movement in the opposite direction. Stealthy for the first few steps until he was in position, Hutch suddenly stepped out into the headlights of the limousine, gun drawn and pointed directly at the driver.

     Roper didn’t wait for his door to be opened this time, bursting out of the passenger door angrily as soon as the car screeched to a stop. 

     “What is the meaning of this?!”

     Hutch’s voice was steady; no more second-guessing. “I promised you immunity, Roper, not a case full of heroin.”

     The gangster’s eyes narrowed. “You said I would be free to go, that you were not after Roper.” 

     “You’re free to go. The bag isn’t.” 

     “May I remind you what you risk, Detective? I have said I would repay.” 

     Hutch snorted. “I’ve heard that before. You said you pay your debts—I take it you’re a man who values honor. Well, I am, too. I keep my promises, but I also keep my oath as a cop. The drugs stay.” 

     “And the money?”

     “You want to go reclaim it from Coyle?” Hutch nodded at the ominous darkness behind Roper. What was happening back there, anyway?

     The gangster also glanced back, his jaw working as he then glared at Hutch once more. “You drive a hard bargain.” 

     “I seem to recall you doing the same once.” 

     There was a long, tense beat. Then Roper’s jaw slowly unclenched, his aggressive stance loosening. To Hutch’s surprise, humor crept into his face. “You argue your case well, Mr. Policeman. Very well. The debt is paid on both sides. I trust we will not need to meet again.” The thread of menace was tacit implication the next meeting would not be as cordial. 

     Hutch nodded once, not letting his guard or gun down, even as Roper reached inside the car and brought out the case, handing it over. 

     “Have a good evening, Detective,” Roper said wryly, and disappeared back into his car. Hutch stepped aside and the limousine drove away.

     Hefting the bag, Hutch turned back toward the site of the meet, anxious to ~~go~~ back up his partner. In the darkness, he couldn’t see anything but the faint glint of metal that was Coyle’s car. 

     And then a shot rang out, followed by another. Hutch immediately dropped the case and ran. 

     The driver came into view first, standing uninjured and impatient, handcuffed to the door frame of the driver’s side door. It was one of Starsky’s favorite ways of incapacitating a prisoner, and Hutch didn’t give the man a second glance. There were two figures beyond him, one on the ground and one standing over him, and he couldn’t tell which was which. Hutch ran even faster.

     And skidded to a halt beside the body of Matt Coyle.

     Even in death, Coyle seemed to be smirking, enjoying the upper hand. He would have looked merely asleep but for the red-soaked splotch on the breast of his nice suit. Hutch stared disbelievingly at the body. That was it, the object of all his hate dead, just like that? 

He finally tore his eyes away and glanced up at his partner, who stood gaping and pale next to the corpse. Hutch’s heart sank even further and, with a wince, he gently pulled the Smith & Wesson from Starsky’s dangling hand. 

     “What happened?”

     “He just…stood there. He had a clean shot, Hutch, an’ he missed. I told him t’ put it down but he was re-aiming…I had t’ shoot. And he just stood there.” He sounded as dazed as he looked.

     “Suicide by cop, Starsk—it wasn’t your fault.” Hutch gripped one taut shoulder. He always hated this part. “We had him, and with a second offense he’d have gone down for a lot longer. He lost and he knew it.” 

     Shocked blue eyes stared at him. “He coulda…”

     Hutch’s small smile held no humor. “Shot you? It would’ve just made it worse for him. Think about it, Starsky—this way he’s free, and he got one last swipe in at you, too.” Starsky had always managed to keep some kind of innocence about the way the criminal mind worked. Hutch couldn’t claim the same. He understood too well what Coyle had been thinking. 

     Starsky was pulling himself together, holding his bandaged hand again as he nodded unsteadily back toward the direction Hutch had come from. “What happened with Roper?”

     “He’s gone, but I got the case.” 

     Starsky just nodded, not asking where it was. Hutch knew he should go fetch it, call in, arrest the chauffeur properly…but he was reluctant to leave Starsky. Hutch blamed himself more than a little for having made it end this way. For all his hate of Matt Coyle, he hadn’t wanted this, the corpse at his feet, the death on Starsky’s shoulders. Hutch hadn’t wanted this at all.

     “Hey,” he said gently, waiting until Starsky looked up again. “Why don’t you sit down? Looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

     He got an absent nod in response, but Starsky didn’t start moving until Hutch hooked an arm around him and steered him to a nearby crate. One last glance at his silent partner and Hutch left to go do his duty. And wondered, bitterly, if it was worth it. 

     They would be off duty until the shooting board convened, though it seemed it would be just a formality in this case. The chauffeur, without a boss to protect, was more than willing to cut a deal and talk, and between his and Starsky’s account, Dobey saw no contest to a justified shooting finding. Nor did he question Hutch’s assertion that they hadn’t clearly seen the second party at the meet, and had only just managed to get the bag of heroin from him before he escaped. The captain’s upraised eyebrow made clear he knew Hutch wasn’t telling him everything, but he didn’t press. He wasn’t as quick to forgive their staking out the meet without telling him, however. Hutch took full responsibility for the “oversight” and willingly listened to the resulting angry lecture. It was the least he could do for his partner, who never moved from the crate until Hutch took him home hours later.

     Starsky was exhausted and went straight to bed without a word. Hutch was too tired to go back to his own place, and had too much on his mind to sleep. He finally took the half-case left of Starsky’s beer and sat out on the porch to watch the coming sunrise.

    Sometimes he wished they had a black-and-white job. Accountants, maybe, where numbers added up or they didn’t. Or a blue-collar job: good, hard, physical work. He himself had dreamed of being a doctor once… But life had led him to the police academy, instead, and Starsky. How could he wish to undo that? 

     But the look in his partner’s eyes that night… Hutch was hard-pressed to remember anymore why getting Matt Coyle had been so damnably important that it was worth the cost to Starsky. If anything, Hutch should have been the one to pay.

     A sliver of the sun appeared in the lightening pink sky. For all the evils of smog, it gave the city some beautiful sunrises and sunsets. It was hard not to appreciate the feeling of new beginnings, and Hutch’s heart also lifted a little. It was amazing how much a little light could help, a little good. And they’d made a career of doing just that. 

     The screen door squeaked behind him, and Hutch didn’t look over as a tousled and sleepy Starsky settled on the top porch step next to him. 

     “Thought you’d be out here.” He was also looking at the growing sun.

     “Thought you’d be asleep,” Hutch answered.

     Starsky turned just enough to give him a wry look. “Not with you out here.” 

     Hutch swallowed, wishing he’d found some answers. Even the peace of before had evaporated. “Starsk—”

     “If you say you’re sorry, I’m gonna have t’ hit ya,” Starsky said seriously.

     Hutch blinked. “I guess I won’t say it then.” 

     “Good.” They sat in silence and the dawning light for a long minute. “He didn’t give me any choice, Hutch.”

     “I know.”

     Starsky turned to him, giving him a searching look. “So why are you beatin’ yourself up over it?”

     Hutch shrugged. “I know what it’s like to pull the trigger, even if Coyle deserved it. You didn’t even want to be there—I should have been the one to—”

     “Hold it right there.” Starsky’s anger stopped him, stunned, in mid-phrase. “Where do you get off puttin’ this all on yourself? The way I remember it, Coyle was after both of us. The guy was a monster—he had to be stopped. Yeah, you did it a way I wouldn’t have—so what? How many times ’ve I had to make a decision ’cause you were laid up or…dyin’, and I didn’t have any choice? You think I had an easy time livin’ with the decision to offer Callendar immunity? I even said I’d drive him to the airport.”

     Hutch had forgotten about that. It had been an even more blatant deal than the one with Roper, letting a known murderer, one they could have put away for the rest of his life, walk in order to save a lot of other lives. Including Hutch’s. And he wondered, not for the first time, if Starsky would have made the same deal if his partner hadn’t been dying. 

     But Starsky wasn’t finished. “You’re my partner, Hutch. If I trust you with my life, I’m gonna trust you with everything else, too. I may not always agree, but I’ll tell ya if you’ve gone too far, and then I’ll follow ya. That’s the way it works. Far as I’m concerned, you were the one with the guts to make a tough decision.”

     “Even if you’re the one who has to live with the consequences?” Hutch mused.

     Starsky grunted. “Tell me you’re not livin’ with it as much as I am.” 

     Hutch thought about it, and didn’t answer. Wasn’t that what their whole partnership was about, sharing the good and the bad? Making it bearable, making it add up, making it _fun_. It wasn’t absolution, but it was something he could definitely live with. Hutch just shook his head and laughed. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

     “Takes one to know one,” Starsky grinned back. 

     Hutch didn’t miss a beat. “Opposites attract.” 

     “A stitch in time saves nine.” 

     Hutch opened his mouth, snapped it shut again. What was he supposed to say to a response like that? He took in the twinkle in Starsky’s eye, the barely restrained glee, how the years had lifted from his face, and said what he felt. “I love you.” 

    The mischief softened into something deeper and more sincere. “Me, too. But I still get to pick the pizza toppings next time.” 

     “Maybe,” Hutch allowed generously, brimming with unexpected, quiet happiness. 

     And the two of them sat side-by-side and watched the rest of the sunrise. 


End file.
